


abandoned footie wips

by nahco3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-09-28 03:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10070210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: In the spirit of WIP amnesty, here are a few footie fics I started and will probably never finish, posted as individual chapters.





	1. David Villa/David Silva - soul bond AU

David is on an airplane maybe an hour after it happens. There's a clause in his contract, something to the effect of "you better not travel internationally during the season without the team's permission or you'll have to pay a huge fine and you'll be benched," blah blah, nothing he ever considered or considered breaking.

This though. This isn't. Rational thought doesn't really factor in. He remembers, sitting on the runway, gripping his phone so tightly his knuckles are white. He's leaving it on, on silent, even though it's past time for him to have turned it off. It doesn't matter, it isn't going to make the plane crash or what the fuck ever and even if it does, a plane crash would be preferable to this fucking uncertainty. Pep said he'd text the second he hears anything. David breathes around the panic.

\--

He'd been leaving dinner at the concentration hotel, to go back to his room because the past few days he'd been wrecked; exhausted, nauseous, chest pain with no discernible cause. Well, if he was honest with himself the whole season had been like that - some mornings he woke up and it was like the world was flat and purposeless, and he felt too tired to move. He did anyway, because he had to, because he wasn't giving this up now. but.

Anyway. The last few days had been particularly bad, and just as David was leaving the dining room it hit - he was light headed and then suddenly slumped against the wall. His breath came too fast and his chest ached but mostly he's thought Silva Silva Silva Silva ohgod David please because what he felt wasn't his. He hadn't felt Silva this directly in a long time, not since before World Cup, and to have it come back like this is. He felt powerless and and angry and mostly, terrified, because he couldn't fix any of it.

The next thing he remembers is being back in his own room, a grave doctor and Pep standing over him. They were talking, David didn't care about what.

"I need to go to Manchester," he said, forcing himself upright. He realized there were tears in his eyes but he worried if he took a hand off the bed to wipe at them, he'd topple over.

"Yes," Pep agrees. "I've already spoken to Mancini. I had no idea City could be so," he pauses, full of contempt, "irresponsible, to let this reach such a point. You will be taken to the hospital there, and once he is stable enough to fly, you'll both be returning here."

David nodded, only half paying attention, trying to send I'm coming I'm coming I'm coming across the channel to Silva, concentrating as hard as he can. "Do you know what happened?"

"He collapsed on the pitch. As far as they can tell he's still unconscious," Pep said, maybe kindly. David felt like throwing up.

"We'll give you something to make the flight easier," the doctor said, "it should dull the transference."

"No," David said, voice harsh. "No. It. When he wakes up, he needs to know I'm coming. You can't."

The doctor paused. "Very well. I'll be coming with you to monitor both your conditions, in any case, so if the treatment does become necessary, I can administer it then."

\--

They land in Manchester and there's a car waiting, with a driver and a translator.

"Take us to the hospital," the doctor tells them. David can tell they're getting closer, even though he doesn't know shit about Manchester, by the way his heart rate picks up. He can feel everything more clearly now, not just what the doctor would call "physiological and crude mental transference" but loneliness, homesickness, shame, anger - he has to shut his eyes because he feels lost. He hates himself for doing this, then ruthlessly suppresses it. Silva doesn't need that. He tries to think comforting thoughts, the beach in Valencia, the smell of fresh cut grass, the tiny wrinkles around the corners of Silva's eyes when he laughs.

When they get to the hospital, David is impatient, angry, pacing even in the elevator. Whatever the translator thinks he stays quiet, well-paid. The doctor gives him a sad, knowing look - professionally upset. When the elevator door opens, David is running down the hallway; he knows where he is going without having to think.

Silva is lying in a bed. He looks small and even though his eyes are closed, he looks exhausted. There's an IV drip in his arm and he's hooked up to a heart monitor. David has to stop for a second because he can't. What if. But then Silva opens his eyes.

"David?" he says, his voice barely above a whisper, and David is next to him, half on the bed. He wraps an arm around Silva's slight shoulders as best he can. Where their skin touches David feels like he's been burned.

"I'm here," he says. Silva feels empty, exhausted, worn-out, broken. David tries to erase it all, push back with whatever good he has in himself. He presses a kiss to the top of Silva's head because he can't not; Silva curls tighter into his side and shuts his eyes. Only then does David notice there are at least five doctors in the room.

"Don't worry," the doctor from Barcelona says, from the door. "He's coming home with us."

\--

They don't fly commercial back to Barcelona. David doesn't realize this until later (actually, until he sees his credit card bill the next month; Barcelona can be motherfuckers like that sometimes) because he's too overwhelmed with Silva. It's like the bond is newly forged - David can't take his eyes off Silva, can't take his hands off Silva. He's sleeping deeply in his chair, a blanket pulled up to his chin, his eyelashes fine and fluttering, dark circles under his eyes. Under the blanket, David's holding Silva's hand, running his thumb over Silva's knuckles just to feel the echo of his own touch through the bond.

When David shuts his eyes he can see the flashes of Silva's dreams, scattered images too fast for him to parse, pieces of Silva's life he doesn't know or understand. David reaches across with his other hand to brush Silva's hair off his forehead, and Silva settles further into sleep, the dreams sliding away into darkness. 

He wakes as they land, blinking, confused. David can tell he doesn't know where they are. He's woken up like this once or twice himself, too intertwined with Silva to know where he is or where he begins and Silva ends.

"We just landed in Barcelona," David tells Silva. "You're staying with me for a while."

Silva stretches, pushing the blanket off himself and letting go of David's hand. "What about - ?"

"Everything will be taken care of," the doctor cuts in, forgotten by them both, "please, Mr. Silva, at this point, you must just relax and recover."

Silva gives David a tired, unhappy look, but he settles back against David and nods. David wraps his arms around Silva, giving what he still can to him. 

They get back to David's house late at night, so David doesn't bother with a tour, just steers Silva upstairs to his bedroom. Silva strips quickly, grabs one of David's t-shirts out of a drawer and a pair of his boxers out of another. David realizes he didn't show Silva where anything was, Silva just knew, and the intimacy of that stops him. Silva looks over his shoulder at David and shrugs, an easy acknowledgment of it. David wonders how he's ever going to let this again.

They don't sleep late. David has practice, so he has to be up, and when David's alarm goes off, Silva gets up too. He already looks better than last night, feels better too, David can tell. They eat breakfast together in silence, companionably. The sun's just come up.

"You look pale," David says, because it's an explanation for why he hasn't been able to stop staring at Silva. Silva laughs.

"Yeah, well, England," Silva says. 

"You should go lie in the backyard while I'm at practice," David tells him. 

"You should go lie in traffic," Silva says, stealing some of David's toast. David hits him, because he can, because Silva's at his breakfast table, wearing his clothes, eating his food. He knows the possessiveness must transfer across, because Silva's face falls, the bond tightens worryingly. 

"You know I can't stay," Silva says. 

"Can we not think about this right now," David says, grabbing hold of his hand. "Please, David."

Silva sighs, bringing David's hand up to his mouth, kissing David's fingers. David runs his hand along Silva's jawline, leans across the table to kiss him. 

When David gets back from practice, Silva's asleep on David's couch. David shakes him awake, carefully, because after practice the doctor reminded David that it's important they spend as much time together as possible, and Silva sleeping this much is fucking with David's sleep cycle. He can't just nap all the time; he's still working for a living. 

Silva wakes up at David's touch. "How was practice?" he asks. It's kind of a formality at this point, the question, since Silva could figure it no problem if he wanted to. Then again, from the sleepy look in his eyes, maybe he can't. David reaches out to stroke his already sleep-mussed hair, cupping his head.

"Your hair's soft," he mutters, leaning down to kiss the top of Silva's head. David can't see Silva's smile, but he can feel it like Silva's arms are wrapped around him.

"Practice was fine," David tells him, "you know, the usual." He sits down the on the couch next to Silva and pulls Silva over so he's nearly sitting on David's lap. Doctor's orders and all that.

"Yeah," Silva says. "Did they say anything about City?"

David runs a hand up and down Silva's spine. "They're working on some kind of loan for the rest of the season. I think they're sending Pedro over - they're calling it some sort of "top club exchange" bullshit, I don't know. Don't worry about it, you'll have a place here when you're ready."

"Oh," Silva says. David can tell he's not happy. David understands, Barcelona can be - well, they can be a lot, and they always think they know best, but this is what's best, for both of them and the club. 

"I just, I mean, my team needs me," Silva says, "I don't want to abandon them like this."

"You have to, David, you have to look after yourself too," David says. "Jesus, if we keep this up it's going to kill us."

"Don't be hyperbolic," Silva says, and David can feel his annoyance.

"I'm not being fucking hyperbolic," David says, "if we. They said the bond could break if it kept going like this. And David, I couldn't um, I couldn't live with that."

Silva turns to face him. "Don't you ever fucking dare think that," he says. "Don't even think it."


	2. David Villa/David Silva - future fic

What Comes Next 

Euro 2020, the Netherlands - 

They’re sitting in Cesc’s hotel room, since he doesn’t have a roommate - a perk of captaincy - drinking red wine. It’s the night before the semi-final, and David’s tired, deep down in his bones. He knows Cesc is too, from the way he favors his left leg and the unconscious clench of his hands, tells David knows after a decade of their odd friendship.

“Do you ever,” Cesc says, “do you ever see people that aren’t there?” He takes another sip of his wine, too good to be drunk out of paper cups in secret, but old habits die hard.

“On the pitch?” David asks. Then, not waiting for an answer, he says, “Yeah. Sometimes.” He does, everywhere, but it’s worst here. They’re wearing throwback jerseys, for some stupid reason, to commemorate the win in 2008. They sometimes make David think he’s going crazy. 

Cesc lets out a deep sigh. “We’re not going to win, are we?” 

“Don’t say that,” David says. “We’re good.”

“We’re old,” Cesc retorts, “and. The kids.” He lies back on the bed. “Do you think this was how Raul felt?”

David shrugs. “We won. He never did.”

“I know,” Cesc says, irritated. “I mean, I wonder if he ever felt. You know. Let down.”

David takes a gulp of his wine, because he’s not drunk enough for this, not by a long shot. “Everyone retires,” he points out, reasonably.

“That,” Cesc says, “is my point. Everyone retired.”

“The kids -”

“The kids think we’re fucking holy, or they’d kill for our spots.” Cesc laughs. “I just, shit David. I’m going to miss you when you’re gone.”

“It’s time,” David says, meaning that he’s sick of chasing shadows, of spending the better part of ten years watching his teammates, his friends, get old and get injured and leave, or watching them fight for call-ups, over and over, until they get passed over as the team moves on and they get left behind. He’s sick of reunions, fewer and fewer of them each time meeting in Cesc’s room, the number dwindling until now, when it’s just the two of them. He’s sick of his scars and his trophies, of carrying a nation and a team onward when he’s so tired. David never imagined it ending, never imagined being the only one left.

“Stop thinking so much,” Cesc says. “Drink more.”

David punches his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Captain, I thought we were supposed to be dry the night before a game.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Cesc says, companionably, topping both their cups off. “Here’s to the champions Europe and of the world.” 

“Here’s to us,” David replies for the last time, saying what he always has, every time anyone’s made that toast with him, in a hundred hotel rooms and bars. 

They’re quiet for a little while. David wonders who Cesc will drink with next time, if he’ll drink alone or let himself be dragged out with the kids to some new bar. He looks down at his watch and fiddles with his hands, takes large sips of his wine. Cesc yawns and the silence stretches companionably. David looks at his watch again, watching the second hand circle, reminding him he has all the time he needs. 

David looks at the wall beyond Cesc, his heart ratcheting in his chest. “I’m gay,” he says.

Cesc spits out his wine onto the bedspread. “Sorry,” David apologizes.

“No, it’s. Just. Wow, ok,” Cesc says. He takes a minute. “You know you’re like a brother to me David,” he says, finally. “You telling me this won’t change that. Nothing could change that.”

David bites the inside of his lip and releases it. “I. Thanks.” He lets out a little laugh. “You guessed?”

Cesc shrugs, mischievous and young again. “I had suspicions.” Cesc pauses and grows more serious. “Are you seeing anyone?”

David looks down at his hands. “Kind of. It’s complicated.”

“I can imagine,” Cesc says, and when David looks up, there’s grave sympathy in his eyes. “I’d like to meet him. You know, if that’s ok.”

“Yeah,” David says. “That would be. That’d be ok.” He takes another drink to steady himself. “Just, if you could not, you know. No one else really knows.”

“Your family?” Cesc asks, surprised. 

“They know. They just aren’t. They don’t like to be reminded of it.” David gives a tight smile.  
Cesc puts a hand on his knee, the kind of gesture that reminds David why he’s a captain. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Does anyone else...?”

“Albiol,” David says, “a few people from home. My agent.” He laughs to himself, a little bitterly, and adds. “Plus the people I’ve slept with, that is.”

Cesc’s eyes widen, but he’s hard to shock, another reason David likes him. “Well,” he says, awkward but sincere, “thank you for trusting me with this.”

And that’s all they say about it, until after the match. David’s packing his bag for the last time, ready to go home to Milan, ready to sleep for a week straight and forget these colors forever, ready for the club season to start.

Cesc knocks on the doorframe - David’s roommate had propped the door open with the trashcan so he can yell out into the hall.

“Come in,” David says, and Cesc steps inside, moving the trashcan so the door swings shut. 

They’ve said their significant goodbyes already, on the pitch and in the locker room - Cesc crying quietly into David’s shoulder, David dry-eyed and empty. They’ll say them again in Madrid, David knows, but it wouldn’t be the same. They aren’t teammates anymore, not since David stripped off his kit for the last time. They never will be again.

“Will you ever tell the press?” Cesc asks.

David shakes his head. Cesc watches him, his hands in his pockets.

“Sometimes people can surprise you,” Cesc says, finally.

David gives a quiet, humourless laugh. “Usually not for the best,” he says.

Cesc walks over next to him and puts a hand on his back, a solid presence, an old ally in this and in everything, a brother. 

\--

December 2021, Milan -

“I want to go,” Carlos says, leaning against the wall of their bedroom and watching David pack.

“Trust me, you don’t,” David says, grabbing a pile of t-shirts from his dresser and stuffing them into his suitcase. 

“I want to spend Christmas with you,” Carlos drapes himself over David’s shoulders, impeding David’s packing. David shrugs him off, annoyed. 

“My family,” David says, folding a pair of jeans, then putting them down on the bed, “my family are. It would really be best if you didn’t.” He picks up the jeans again, unfolds and refolds them.

“Your sister likes me,” Carlos says, flippant. When David doesn’t respond, he sits on the bed, grabbing David’s left wrist tightly. David meets his eyes. “David, just because they’re ashamed of you doesn’t mean you need to be, too.”

“They’re not ashamed of me,” David says, shaking his wrist free. “It’s. Don’t say that. You don’t know anything about it.”

“Because you won’t fucking tell me anything, David,” Carlos stands to face him. “You walk around like you’re some sort of martyr. For God’s sake, it isn’t easy for anyone! My grandfather still won’t talk to me but I don’t use that as an excuse to isolate myself from everyone I’ve ever loved.”

“You have no idea what it’s like for me,” David answers, voice rising, “you have no idea what it’s like to go to practice every day, to walk out onto the pitch and know that if - you think this is just my family?” He slams his suitcase shut. 

“Oh, of course, football,” Carlos says, “Because there are no openly gay footballers, I forgot.” His face is twisted with sarcasm. “This is the twenty-first century, David. Don’t use your career as an excuse, you’re just afraid- ”

David shoves Carlos up against the wall and holds him there. Carlos has a few inches on him, has broader shoulders, but David has built his body for this kind of carefully controlled violence. 

“Never say that,” David says, voice quiet, adrenaline making his body thrum like he’s on the pitch, “You have no idea.” He steps back, releasing Carlos, his hands shaking.

“Jesus, David,” Carlos says, his voice weak. “I’m -”

“You should go,” David says, shoulders tight. Carlos doesn’t say anything else, just goes, leaving David with his half-packed suitcase, the silence of the apartment buzzing in his ears.

\--

When he gets back from the Canaries on New Years Eve, there’s a note on the countertop:

I’m sorry about how things worked out. I’ve moved out, and I took the grey cashmere sweater you never wear. 

\- C

Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I always kept your secrets. 

Carlos’s keys, to the mailbox and the front door, are resting beside the note. David crumbles the note in his hand and slumps down against the counter, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands, quiet as the new year arrives. 

\--

David is tired, bone deep, when winter break ends and the season starts back up. His knees ache with the wet cold of Milan in January. His favorite trainer, Gia, just gives him a sad look and some extra-strength pain killers.

“Keep icing them,” she says, “there’s not much else I can do for you. It’s just irritation, which at least means you can play through it.”

David sighs. He’d expected as much, but he’s getting tired of pain that must be borne and endured, of the ways his life wears him down. “Thanks anyway, Gia,” he says, pushing himself up off of her examination table. “Sorry for taking up your time.”

“Hey, that’s what they pay me for,” she says, smiling at him. She has dark eyes and a solid body, streaks of grey in her hair, two young children who she sometimes brings in to work, where they sit in the corner of her office, coloring quietly. The kind of woman he used to imagine marrying, sometimes, when he was at his loneliest after his family moved back to Spain, when he was tired of dark clubs and flashing lights and guys popping tablets of ecstasy before he sucked their dicks, the kind of woman he used to think about marrying when he wanted an easy out, before he met Carlos, after he met David Villa. 

“David,” Gia asks, putting her hand on his shoulder, “is something else bothering you? I can set up an appointment with a psychologist,” and David’s shaking his head, brushing her hand away, “or we can just talk. I did do a psych rotation.” She smiles briefly. “And I promise it would stay between us.” 

David sticks his hands in the pockets of his jeans, unsure, leaning against the examination table. He likes Gia and he does trust her offer but - he has to stay focused on his game. And there’s a risk, there’s always a risk, that makes his heart rate pick up, that makes him feel sixteen again, no matter how hard he tries to shake it. 

“I visited my family over the break,” David says, with a self-deprecating shrug. “You know how that is.”

Gia sits down opposite him and folds her hands in her lap. “Always stressful. But it must have been good to see your siblings?”

“No, it was,” David says, half-annoyed with himself for letting this conversation start. This isn’t going to help anything, he knows it. There is no relief in opening up halfway, no way to relieve the building pressure.

Gia raises her eyebrows at him and waits, lets the silence stretch. 

“My parents.” David takes a deep breath. “They’re worried I’m not happy. They’re worried that, that the things I do will hurt me in the long run. And right now,” David looks down. “It’s kind of ironic that they might be right. But not in the way they think.” He shakes his head. “Is that cryptic enough for you?”

Gia stands and sighs. “If you can’t talk to me about whatever’s hurting you David, is there someone you can talk to? One of your other teammates?”

David thinks about Cesc in Barcelona, Raul in New York. He knows they would both take his call, but he can’t bring himself to put it into words - two years, two fucking years, and this is what he’s left with. He should have known.

“Maybe,” David says. What he really should do is focus, they have Roma coming up on the weekend and it’s not going to be an easy match. “Anyway, I’ll see you around. Thanks for the pills.”

Gia gives him a quick hug, surprising him. “Anytime, David. Really.” 

“Yeah,” David says, meaninglessly, walking down the hallway towards his car, to drive home to his empty apartment. 

\--

May 2022, Milan - 

Villa’s drinking coffee out of a white ceramic cup. When he sees David, he raises his head; a quick upward nod of acknowledgment. David waves to him and then puts his hand down, awkward, regretting the gesture. He picks his way through the maze of chairs on the terrace until he makes it to Villa’s table.

"Thanks for coming," Villa says, as David sits down opposite him. "I ordered for you."

"I was happy to," David says, which isn't quite true and anyway, doesn't come close to defining the ache in his chest, the uncertainty and the eagerness, the quick longing, the slow-burning loneliness.

There are wrinkles around the corner of David's eyes, now. He's tanner than Silva remembers. “I was here anyway for the final.” He waves a hand, as though the UEFA Cup’s nothing much, but he’s smiling broadly. 

“I’ve been following you guys,” David says. “It’s been a good campaign.” He has been, too, every Valencia game he can. It’s strange to see Villa, on the touchline in a dark coat and shined shoes, hands in his pocket. Strange, but good. 

They’re quiet for a moment, and then Villa says, “I heard from Fabregas you’re retiring this year.”

David nods. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“You thinking about coming back to Spain?” Villa asks. He’s leaning forward a little, his eyes intent on David. His hands are folded in front of him on the table and it hits David with a start that Villa’s not wearing his wedding ring. He remembers hearing a few years ago about Villa’s divorce, but he almost hadn’t believed it at the time; it seemed too much like his cruelest fantasies. He looks up and meets Villa’s eyes, warm and intent. David swallows. He wants to drop to his aching knees, beg and make promises. Fuck. 

“I’m not sure,” he says, taking a sip of water. 

“I’ve talked to the board,” Villa says, “and we want. Well. I don’t know if you’d be interested.” A waiter comes and puts down two plates of pastries. Villa waits for him to leave again, then continues, “Do you want to come work for us?”

David sits for a second. “I don’t have any experience with, with that.”

Villa shrugs. “Neither did I, six years ago and look at me now. I could use you, we’re trying something new in the midfield next season and I asked the board if I could bring in the best guy I knew.”

“That’s not true,” David says.

“Best guy who’s not fucking married to Barcelona,” Villa responds. “Come on, you know you want to help me take down the evil empire. Both evil empires.”

“I’ll think about it,” David says. 

Villa reaches into his wallet and pulls out a ticket for the UEFA Cup final. “Come watch us tomorrow,” he says with his old infallible confidence. 

“Of course,” David tells him, taking the ticket, careful not to let their fingers brush. 

\--

He goes to the game and sits in San Siro, among the men and women in suits, ten rows back from the pitch. He sits still, doesn’t jump up or cheer, chant or swear. He watches Valencia go one up, a brilliant headed goal from Jonathan Amin, coming off a gently curving assist from one of the academy kids, Marquez. 

They’re up one nil at the half and then it all goes to shit. The passes go long, the midfield triangles collapse, the wingers get caught forward and can’t track back in time. On the touchline Villa paces, makes two substitutions in fast succession, but before long the equalizer, and then the winner come for Dortmund, while David sits, impotent in the stands.

After the game he calls Villa. It goes straight to voicemail, but it doesn’t matter.

“I’m in,” David says. “See you next season.” 

\--

August 2022, Valencia - 

"Villa's waiting for you," the assistant says, and points out at the practice pitch. David nods his thanks and walks out, steps steady and eyes up, his arms loose at his sides. It feels like walking out onto the pitch for a final, adrenaline bubbling dangerous in his chest, thoughts disjointed and David remembers a hundred things in between heartbeats - Villa shaking his hand the first time and La Mestalla loud with their names and the cool summer in Switzerland and invincibility and anger and confusion and resignation and Villa's broken smile when he said "Barcelona" for the first time and trophies David didn't earn and trophies he did - remembers his old longing, that he always feared to name.

He steps out onto the pitch and sunlight makes him squint.

"Silva," Villa shouts, and David waves towards his voice, the sunlight still painfully white. He looks away from the sun and lets his eyes adjust, when he looks back, Villa is jogging toward him.

"I didn't say you could stop," Villa calls - yells - back at his players, who Silva sees now, doing passing drills. "You want Silva to know how lazy you are?"

One of them shouts back, "the sooner he figures out the better," and Villa shakes his head, smiling. He's close enough that David can see his laugh lines.

"They're little fuckers," he says, to David, and then his smile widens to a grin. "Good to see you again, Silva."

"You too," David says, reaching out for a handshake but Villa pulls him into a hug. David bites his lips unconsciously, unwilling to remember how long it's been since a teammate, since anyone, made any kind of deliberate and lasting contact with him, and he needs this like water and air. He pulls back.

"Thanks for coming out on such short notice," Villa says. The hair around his temples is steel-grey; his skin is a darker tan and his wrinkles deeper. He still has his soulpatch, and his eyes are the same too, black and darting. Villa's wearing a pair of football boots and tight-fitting athletic pants, a sponsored Adidas shirt. David feels overdressed in his Armani shirt and polished shoes, out of place here in the Spanish sun.

"I wasn't doing anything important," David says, meeting Villa's eyes where he used to look down. "Thanks for, well. For asking me."

Villa half-shrugs. "Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen the team."

They’re better than David expected - well, of course they are, they’re Villa’s, and for all his self-deprecation David can tell he’s fiercely proud of them. Villa has them playing five on five in a twenty meter box, rotating players through rapidly. He occasionally calls directions out: “You need a smoother first touch, Velazquez,” “Zimmerman, don’t give him that much space, move in,” but for the most part he’s silent, shooting looks at David. David looks back at him and gives him a quick nod. Villa’s grins and David can’t help but grin back, sun high above his head, the wet pitch under his feet ruining the leather of his shoes. In front of them, Jonathan Anim controls the ball on his chest, then lofts it over the goal line with the laces of his left boot, throws his arms out wide and laughs, young and immortal, still surprised by his own talent.

“He’s not bad, huh?” Villa says to David, quiet. 

“We can work with that,” David replies, his chest tight. He feels an answering joy rising in him, called out by the smell of fresh-cut grass, by the solid thud of the ball against the players’ boots. He doesn’t want to look away from the players, for the first time it doesn’t hurt to watch other people play when he can’t, his body doesn’t ache from anticipating and then suppressing the movements he could be making on the ball. “Yeah, I think we can work with that.” 

\--

It’s a late on a Tuesday night. They have their home leg against Mainz tomorrow. Villa’s been on edge all day, David can tell. In practice, he was quieter than usual, letting David drill the defense, taking the strikers to the other end of the pitch to make them practice penalties over and over. David snuck a glance at him during a water break; he looked compact, composed, like a brush painting. David knows this is how Villa wears pressure, false unconcern and careful control.

They’re still in the office. Villa is preparing his pre-game talk; he sent everyone else home (including David) about half an hour ago. David stayed, watching tape of Villareal for Sunday’s game. It’s nothing urgent, but he doubts Villa minds the company.

It’s quiet in the conference room, just the buzz of the fluorescent lights, the clatter of Villa’s keyboard as he types. David keeps his eyes on the laptop screen, watching a silent compilation of Villareal’s keeper making diving saves.

Villa’s phone rings, and David starts. Villa answers, keeping one hand on his keyboard. “Yes?”

David can hear the a muffled female voice over the phone, but can’t make out what she’s saying. He focuses on the screen in front of him. “Fine,” Villa says, tersely, then, a minute later, “I’ll send it tomorrow morning.” Pause. “Tell the girls I love them. Talk to you later.”

He puts his phone down and leans back in his chair, shutting his eyes.

“Patricia?” David asks.

Villa nods. “Zaida forgot one of her books at my house last weekend; I need to ship it to her.”

David shuts the laptop and turns his chair to face Villa. “You see them often?”

“They come down once a month. And I spend holidays with them.” Villa’s eyes are dark and his voice is resigned. He scrubs a hand over his face. “It fucking sucks.”

“I can imagine,” David says, although he can’t, really. He remembers David with his daughters, at national call-ups and at Valencia, lifting them into the air, talking quietly to them, the peaceful look in his eyes.

“They.” Villa looks down at his phone. “It makes more sense for them to stay in Barcelona with their mo - with Patricia. I move around so much and they need, you know. Consistency. They have good friends at school. It wouldn’t be fair. I go see them when I can, too. Off days.”

David thinks he should move over, clap an arm over Villa’s shoulder, tell him - tell him what? It doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s not important. David stays still.

“Let me know if. If I can cover for anything for you ever,” he says, looking down at the table. “I’m sure they love to see you when they can.”

Villa makes a harsh sound that’s almost a laugh. “They’re teenagers. I’m just. I’m lucky if they don’t hate me too much.”

David wants to ask Villa how he thinks anyone could hate him - slim-shouldered and fiercely loyal, it’s obvious how much he loves his daughters.

“You. You love them, that’s. They’ll know that. That’s enough,” David says, his words tripping over each other, coming from somewhere deeper than he means them to. 

Villa looks at David, intense and thoughtful. He rubs his eyes again, and then turns back to his laptop. “I hope so,” he says, finally. They work in silence a while longer.

“Why?” David asks, abruptly. The rest of the office is dark, they’re alone and it feels safe to ask.

Villa looks up from his laptop. There are slight bags under his eyes. He runs his tongue over his lower lip; he’s thinking, not angry. “I. We both changed a lot, and it wasn’t until I stopped playing that we realized that I. That we weren’t who we were. And it wasn’t fair to her, or the girls.”

“Oh,” David says, meaninglessly. He wants to say more, but doesn’t know what. 

Maybe Villa senses that, maybe he’s just sick of talking about himself. “What about you? Never found the right girl?” Villa asks, looking down at his hand where his wedding ring would have been.

“The right guy,” David corrects without thinking. Villa looks up at him, his face completely blank.

Oh fuck. Silva feels himself start to shut down.

“Fucking shit, Silva, we were teammates for ten years and you never told me?” Villa’s shoulders are slumped, and his eyes meet David’s hesitantly, uncertainly, in contrast with the sharpness of his voice. 

“Not many people know,” David says, an easy excuse to give, at least. It’s the truth, or part of it.

“Who?” David asks, then stops himself. “That’s probably none of my business.” He gives a barking, humorless laugh. 

David shrugs, blushing, reminding himself over and over there’s nothing to be ashamed of. His chest feels tight, he feels caught out, cut open. 

“I.” David says, not even knowing what he’ll say next. Villa watches him, inscrutable. “I promise you have nothing to worry about from me,” he says, words heavy and practiced. He hates himself for saying them.

Villa’s eyes widen. 

“Are you, are you kidding me Silva? What kind of asshole do you think I am? Jesus.” 

[they fight since dv is really hurt that silva never trusted him since he thought they were close, and silva is like w/e you don’t know my life or my problems and also is still in love with him]

\--

“I never would have thought you had it in you, Silva” someone calls to him.

“I did,” Villa says, sleepily, next to him. David can’t help but look down at his lazy grin.

\--

“So you never.” David takes a deep breath, trying to process this, the reverse of so many of his fantasies.

Villa colors. “No, I have. Just. It wasn’t.” He takes a long pause. “They were not the proudest moments of my life,” he says, finally, looking down. 

\--

“It’s. It’s complicated,” David says, leaning minutely against Villa, barely letting his shoulder rest against Villa’s chest. Villa holds himself perfectly still, and looking out the window, watching the street lights pass by.

\--

David lies in bed next to Villa, hotel room air conditioning too loud, sheets smooth against his skin. The room smells like detergent and sex, like every hotel room David’s ever stayed in. Villa’s asleep, and David wonders not for the first time if he’ll spend the rest of his life like this, discontented and drifting, longing for someone to anchor him. His chest hurts, tight and full, bright and cutting, past happiness and sadness, the kind of pressure that can only be endured. When he was twenty he thought that if Villa would just look at him, just let him suck his cock, it would erase everything. Now he looks down at Villa next to him and doesn’t know; he’s half-healed, maybe more if he’d stop thinking about it, but something about this cracks him open in some new way. He’s waited too many years for too many things, learned self-reliance and how to score with his left foot, learned how to move past winning the World Cup and his mother’s tears and he knows even now, one day he’ll have to move past this too. He wonders if he’ll be able to.


	3. Roberto Di Matteo/Juan Mata - literally just porn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when Juan Mata played for Chelsea and Roberto DiMatteo was the manager? yeah apparently I was real into that. (Juan Mata really did call him "Robbie" in an interview with the Guardian, though.)

Roberto sometimes thinks Jose Mourinho cursed the Chelsea job. It's a running joke among the coaching staff, actually. It started after Villas Boas was sacked, when Roberto had just been promoted, and Steve Holland had been promoted as well, to assistant manager. 

Abramovich had just swept out of the training complex, bodyguards in tow, and the whole place was silent the way hospital waiting rooms are, the way Roberto imagines a courtroom is just before the sentence is passed, the way children are when they cower under their covers. 

"We're totally fucked," Steve said, to Roberto, and Roberto laughed because, yeah.

"I hope you are looking forward to having my job in two months," Roberto told him.

Steve shook his head. "Don't even say it." They were quiet for a moment.

"It's like Voldemort," Steve said, and when Roberto looked confused, another piece of English pop culture he's missing, Steve explained: "The villain, from Harry Potter? My youngest girl's obsessed, I've been reading her the books like mad. Anyway, he wanted this job, teaching, and when he couldn't get it, he cursed the job so no one else could keep it for more than a year."

"Ahh," Roberto said, understanding. "Mourinho."

"Yeah," Steve said, "that son of a bitch." 

\--

They win the Champions League and Steve gives Roberto a Harry Potter wand as a gag gift. Abramovich buys them all diamond-encrusted watches. Mourinho sends Roberto a congratulatory email, and Roberto begins to feel a little safer. 

Then they go to Miami for preseason. 

\--

Mata's on his knees in front of Roberto, and Roberto's hand is curled around the base of Mata's neck, his thumb stroking unevenly over his pulse. Mata's licking his lips, still wearing his travel shirt, a polo with the crest over his heart, and his warm-up pants. 

"Robbie," Mata says, and Roberto tightens his grip on the back of Mata's neck.

"Don't talk," Roberto says, and marvels at himself for a minute, marvels as Mata looks up at him through half-lidded eyes and smirks acquiescence. He wants this, badly, his stomach tightening and his cock hard, and Mata leans in, his lips parting obscenely and Roberto digs his nails into the back of Mata's neck and makes promises in Italian and wakes up in his over-conditioned hotel room, hard and panting from the dream.

He jerks off in the shower, unable to clear the image from his head, letting his imagination fill in the rest, Mata's hot mouth and his hollowed cheeks. Roberto would tell him to pull off before he came in Mata's mouth, would push him to the floor and rub off against his stomach, make a mess of him, bite his already swollen lips, take him, fuck him, claim him. 

Roberto turns the water to cold and washes himself off, goes back to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, guilty and hollow. 

\--

It gets worse. 

They're boarding their charter flight back to England. It's late at night, and everyone's tired, even the kids, from three-a-days and jet lag they haven't shaken. Ahead of Roberto, Mata and Lampard are pushing their bags into the overhead compartments. Roberto keeps his eyes down, on his phone.

"Want to sit next to me, gaffer?" Mata asks.

Lampard laughs. "We'll make an Englishman of you yet, Mata," he says, and takes the aisle seat next to Terry. 

Mata smirks at Roberto. "What do you think of that, Robbie? Pretty soon I'll only be able to make passes that are more than twenty yards long."

Roberto realizes with horror that Mata's the kind of player who calls his manager gaffer ironically, the kind of player who knows what irony is. And also that Mata's not calling him Robbie as a joke.

Roberto should sit somewhere else. He doesn't.

\--

It's late now, the cabin lights fully dimmed, the engines a dull hum of white noise. Roberto wakes up and has to go the bathroom. He pushes the Chelsea blue blanket off himself and stands. Mata's asleep in the chair next to him, his earbuds in, his seat reclined nearly all the way. 

The bathroom's small but sparkling clean, white and tiled, not like the bathrooms on the commercial flights Roberto's used to taking. Roberto locks the door with a click and pees, walks the two steps to the sink to wash his hands. There's a mirror above the sink, stretching up to the ceiling. 

Roberto doesn't mean it to, but something clicks in his brain, and his imagines shaking Mata gently awake in his chair, leading him past the rows of his sleeping teammates. Mata follows, still half-confused and rubbing sleep from his eyes until Roberto locks the bathroom door and pushes Mata up against it. He kisses Mata, biting his lips, and runs a hand down Mata's back, under his trackpants and his skin-tight briefs, demanding. Mata groans and hooks a leg around Roberto, opening himself up and leaning back against the door so that Roberto can bite at his neck. 

"What do you want me to do to you?" Roberto asks, his hands busy working Mata's pants down to his ankles. It's not easy with Mata wrapped around Roberto so tight, but that just gives Roberto more time to let his hands linger over Mata's thighs, his fingers brushing the underside of Mata's knee and he bucks up into Roberto.

"Anything," Mata says, "everything, whatever you want." 

Roberto spins Mata so he pressed up against the counter, looking at himself in the mirror. He reaches forward for some of the fancy hand lotion that's next to the soap, pushes into into his palm. In the mirror, Mata's eyes go wide and he braces himself against the countertop with his hands. Roberto grins into the back of Mata's neck, bites at the nob of his spine and pushes a finger in.

Mata shuts his eyes and bites his lips and Roberto watches, entranced, then adds another finger. The dark curves of Mata's eyelashes flutter and Roberto takes Mata's earlobe gently in his teeth. He can't decide if he wants to take his time, take the risk of getting caught to make Mata beg for him, or if he wants Mata hard and now and fast. He adds a third finger and Mata makes a sound Roberto can barely hear over the engines, pushes himself back against Roberto's fingers.

"Open your eyes," Roberto says, into Mata's ear, his lips brushing it and Mata does. They look almost black, his pupils blown and he looks wrecked, bracing himself, pushing back against Roberto. 

Roberto slides in and Mata bows his head forward, his neck and back a perfect arc. Roberto can hear him breathing heavily. He speeds up and Mata opens around him, lets himself go and Roberto can barely remember to keep his eyes on the mirror, to watch Mata's face. His mouth is open and his eyes unfocused, and Roberto reaches around with one hand, runs it down the tense muscles of his forearm, rests his hand on top of Mata's white-knuckled grip on the countertop, for more leverage. 

"Fuck, Robbie," Mata says, "please." Roberto bites at the back of Mata's neck again and pushes his other hand up under Mata's shirt, runs it over his smooth chest, digs his nails in, makes Mata groan. He trails the hand down and wraps it around Mata's dick and Mata pushes back harder against Robbie, bending his head down even more. 

"Jesus," Roberto says, "Mata, Juan," holding himself still for a moment inside Mata and speeding his hand up because this can't end. Mata looks up and meets his eyes in the mirror.

"Fuck, please, please, now," he says, and Roberto shifts the angle of his hips and works his hand so that Mata comes then, over the counter and Roberto's hand and himself, comes with his eyes open, comes begging and drags Roberto over the edge after him.

Roberto opens his eyes. His chest his heaving and he's alone, one of his hands resting on the counter and the other still in his pants, sticky. He washes his hands again and can't meet his reflections eyes, doesn't want to see where he bit his lip to keep quiet, watch his own heaving chest.

He walks back out into the quiet dark of the cabin, settles himself next to Mata again. Mata's sleeping peacefully still, undisturbed, but Roberto stays awake for the rest of the flight, forcing his eyes straight ahead. 

\--

Once the curse has taken hold, there's no cure. Roberto's shamefully glad his office comes with a private bathroom, since he hasn't ever, in his entire life, had to jerk off at work before. Sometimes twice a day. Juan takes a drink from his water bottle and swallows, some of it running down the line of his jaw and twenty minutes later Roberto's got a hand wrapped around his cock, imaging Juan kneeling next to Roberto's desk, jerking himself off while he sucks Roberto's dick. He'd swallow and then rest his head against Roberto's knee as he finished himself off, Roberto's hand still resting protectively around the curve of his skull.

Juan warms up for games, does his stretches, touches his toes and Roberto wants to push him down onto the muddy pitch, fuck him with his uniform just pushed aside, with his cleats and shin guards still on, brushing unfamiliar against the back of Roberto's legs as Juan's moans echo through the empty stadium.

Roberto thinks about him at home too, about pushing Juan down onto his bed and holding him in place with a hand on his chest, gently undressing first himself and then Juan. He'd suck him off slowly, until Mata was panting and begging, his hands crumpling the sheets next to him. Roberto would have his hands on Juan's hips, would hold him in place so he couldn't thrust up, could only take what Roberto gave him. And after he came down Roberto's throat, Roberto would fuck him, slowly and deeply until Juan hardened and came again from just Roberto inside him. And after that Roberto would pull him into the shower and clean him off, slowly, jerk him off with a soapy hand, while Juan was fucked out and worn down and didn't know if he could come again, if he wanted to, until it felt so good it almost hurt. 

He doesn't do anything about it. He's careful, not to give Juan any kind of special treatment, careful to call him by his last name and make him run extra when he's slacking off, never gives him preference in the starting line-up. It doesn't make him feel better though, because he knows still that if he asked, Juan might fall to his knees because he'd be afraid not to. 

It's late one night in November, and he's in his office watching tape of Arsenal's last start for their game on Saturday, when he hears a noise from the other side of the complex. It's not loud enough for him to register what it is, just loud enough to keep shaking him out of his thoughts. He goes to investigate.

Someone's playing music in one of the locker rooms; he can hear it more distinctly as he gets nearer to the weight room. He pushes the door open, meaning to ask them to turn it down.

The locker room's all fogged up, and he can hear the shower running over the sound of the music. He steps inside and the warm, steamy air clings to him. He rounds the corner to the showers and there's Juan, golden and well-muscled, the water sluicing down his back. Roberto's throat goes dry. Yes, yes, he thinks, this. The first moments always feel the best, before he's desperate to get himself off, when his mind still has time to fill in the little details - the bruises on Juan's legs, the way his skin stretches tight over his muscles, the curve of his ass.

Juan turns. 

"Robbie," he says, "I didn't know you were here." He looks surprised, but not unhappy, immodest in the way that all athletes have learned to be. 

"I heard your music," Roberto says. His throat is dry; there's water running down Juan's chest and he looks slick, smooth.

"Oh," Juan says. He watches Robbie, and Robbie watches him. He wonders if he can ask Juan to jerk off for him, if he wants to watch or if he wants to touch him himself.

"Um," Juan says. He looks kind of confused, but Roberto can see his mind working, can see it in the way his eyes narrow just for a moment then go affectedly wide. It's cute - a distressing thought. 

"What?" Juan asks him.

"You know the answer to that," Roberto says, toeing off his shoes and taking off his belt, setting them both aside on a bench where they'll stay dry so as not to ruin the leather. He takes off his tie too, since it's silk, and then steps into the spray of the shower.

It soaks through his shirt almost immediately, but Roberto doesn't care since he has his hands on Juan now. He runs them up and down Juan's arms, then moves them to his back, bringing one up to cup his neck and the other down to rest on his ass.

They still haven't kissed, but their faces are inches apart, both wet from the shower. Juan's blinking. "Robbie?" he says again, uncertain, and Robbie kisses him, with tongue, pulls Juan closer so he can feel how hard Roberto is. Juan's body is radiating heat and he wraps his arms around Roberto's neck, pushes himself up onto his tip-toes so he can meet Roberto better. He moans into the kiss and Roberto can't decide what part of Juan he wants to touch the most - his neck, his back, his cheeks, his ass, his wet hair, his arms. 

Juan's trying his best to get Robbie undressed, is pulling at his shirt and tugging at his pants, but the fabric's wet and clinging, so it takes him a few tries, especially since he can't seem to stop kissing Roberto, won't let Roberto pull away to kiss his neck or his jawline. Whenever Roberto does, Juan says, "Robbie," again, in this desperate voice and Roberto can't refuse him.

Eventually, Roberto's naked enough and Juan pulls back, leaves Roberto dazed. He sinks to his knees, and Roberto will never get tired of seeing that, will never stop dreaming out it. Juan starts slowly, methodically, and loses his rhythm once when Roberto thrusts into his mouth too quickly. It's sloppy and wet and Roberto wrecked with it.

"Juan," he says, "fuck, Juan," and Juan hums around his cock and pulls back. Robbie comes on his face and Juan wrinkles his nose and leans into the spray of the shower to wash it off.

"Now it's my turn," Juan says, grabbing Roberto's hand and pulling him down onto the shower floor. Roberto pulls Juan so that he's lying against Roberto's chest, sitting between Roberto's spread legs, facing away from Roberto, and jerks him off slowly with his right his, running his left hand over Juan's chest and his hips. Juan leans back against his chest and shuts his eyes, and Roberto can't help it, he's babbling, telling Juan how much he wants him - on his desk, against the shower wall, in hotel rooms, on his kitchen table, always, a hundred times a day.

"Fuck," Juan says, rolling his hips, "Robbie. How come you," his breath hitches, "how come you never said."

Roberto bites his neck, hard. "Tomorrow I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll never forget again," he says, and Juan looks up at him, his eyes huge and comes in his hand.

They sit under the spray of the shower for a while and then Roberto realizes, suddenly, horribly, through the fog of sex and exhaustion and overwork that Juan is still there, that this isn't one of his lucid fantasies because _Juan is still there_ , pushing himself up, smiling at him and. Oh god, Roberto thinks he might throw up.

"You ok?" Juan asks, and Roberto nods, gets to his feet and grabs his wet clothes, wraps a towel around himself. 

"Are you?" he asks, and Juan nods and grins at him, gives him a peck on the cheek.

"Of course I am," he says, winking, and heading over to change into his street clothes. Roberto waits for him to leave, goes back to his office, changes into his spare suit and sits down at his desk, his head in his hands.


End file.
